


A Beast Called You

by tongari



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-02
Updated: 2009-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tongari/pseuds/tongari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of Dino and Squalo's youthful days, against the aftermath of the Vongola/Varia battles (in which childhood experiences are as traumatic as they are formative).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beast Called You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in [khr_undercover](http://khr-undercover.livejournal.com/), round two

Vasto in the rainy season is dismal. All warmth and sunlight is gone, the beaches are lonely and grey. The pine trees lining the path to school seem stunted and diminished now, too fragile to climb as we used to. For a long time I walk alone through the forest on the cliffs overlooking the sea. I am looking for the tree you fell off, the one you went back to and cut a hundred scars in. Remember, when we were twelve, and you fell off a tree and broke your ankle? It made you so ashamed, so angry. When you were better you slipped out one night and I followed you through the pines in the dark until you stopped and drew your sword. I thought I would remember the way through the forest, to that tree, forever. Now we are twenty-two and after an hour of walking I have to stop and admit, I do not remember any more. My legs burn as if from acid, my mouth and nose are clotted with the smell of dead pine needles. I pull out my phone to make a call and my voice hurts my throat. All I want is to know if the tree has healed - as if, by simply returning to Vasto, I could undo the damage you did. I resign myself to never knowing if it is possible to recover from you.

 

*

 

How did we meet, the first time? I try to remember precisely. I close my eyes, attempt to replace today with ten years ago. At first there is only darkness; slowly, ponderously, I am allowed to regain bits and pieces of this memory. Fragments fly at me like the teeth of wild animals and I struggle to catch them and arrange them to fit in the blank space. A blue sky dripping with sunlight, a rusting goalpost, long white legs in black socks against a brilliant green pitch. The ball had gone out of play and rolled all the way to the goose pond. The game was on hold while the captains of the two teams devised plans to get the ball back without being pecked to death. The other boys laughed and wrestled on the pitch, emptied their water bottles on each other. Where are you? When we were twelve I didn't expect you, I didn't know you would be there. Only as I'm about to turn away - that's when you explode into sight, in the corner of the field, burning with a white flame like a chemical fire.

I can't immediately recall what you looked like, your twelve-year-old face I thought I would never forget. I have to stare at you through the fence for the longest time before your face begins to materialize. First I see your angry eyes, then your open red mouth, cheeks shining with sweat, hair a pale nimbus flaring around the curve of your skull. It never seems safe to stop and say, yes, this is perfect, this is all of you. Every time I just return to those long black socks pulled so high up over your skinny white knees, and I can't help but laugh at you.

My best mistake: I laughed at you through the fence, you saw me, you walked up to the fence and climbed over it. Before I knew it your fist had introduced itself to my jaw. I saw stars, I fell slowly over backwards. You came at me again and I saw your mouth open up close; I thought, how neat and small your teeth are! How cute! I wanted to punch you in the mouth but missed, I hit you in the stomach instead and we went down together. The memory is still far from complete but already it is drawing to a close. This is the limit of what I can remember today. Each time I try to recall it, I manage to reconstruct less and less of it - as though a mysterious creature eats up more and more of the memory with every year that passes. Already I have forgotten the exact words we screamed at each other, how long we fought for, whether or not I played dirty and dug up the turf to throw into your eyes. That's it, that's all I have left in my hands.

Ten years later I step out from under the pine trees and walk into the shadow of the fence. It is still drizzling. No one is fighting, no one is playing football. Only the descendants of the geese that delayed your game are still gathered beside the pond. I lean on the fence, sink my fingers into the diamond spaces between the wires. I wish you would climb over the fence and hit me in the face again. But now you are so tall, your hair so long it gets in your way, and I am not sure if you can climb so fast any more with only one good hand. Now we are twenty-two and you are still one of the most terrifying and beautiful things I have ever seen. The memory of meeting you for the first time punches me in the mouth. I let myself fall over backwards and sprawl across the wet grass. I'm shivering, it's so cold but I can't move, I don't want to get up. The rain is falling more heavily now, it kisses my face and runs its fingers through my hair and slides long cold hands down my shirt. I pretend that it isn't the rain, it's you.

 

*

 

They put us in the same room, an empty table between us. The first hour had gone by with a scolding and this second hour was for detention. They would let me out first because they thought I was a good boy and would run home and hide from you. I had suspected they would do this so just before our time was up I looked across the desk at you and cleared my throat.

You were staring out of the window, you didn't see me. I kicked the leg of the table. Now you were looking at me. I looked up at the ceiling, then back at you. With my hand below the desk I pointed to the ceiling. You kept looking at me, your face never changed. I mouthed the word _roof_ and made a steeple with my hands over my lap. The teacher who was supposed to be watching us had fallen asleep. I took my watch off and pushed it across the table. I didn't look to see if it reached you, I only felt your hand close over mine and tear it away from me. When I glanced back the watch was gone and your hands were in your pockets.

The teacher called my name and I stood up, was shooed out of the class. I didn't look back. What were you thinking? Did you understand what I meant? I walked into a wall three times on the way to the roof. My ears were buzzing, my mind was full of you, of your black socks pulled up over your knees and your teeth snapping shut on empty air an inch from my cheek. I wanted to fight you and beat you without the boys from your football team pulling us apart. If you gave me a good fight, then, when I had you on the ground and you were doubled over gasping for breath, I would sit down next to you. And offer you my water bottle, and ask for your name.

When I beat you, up on the roof, and you were doubled over gasping for breath, I sat down next to you and offered you my water bottle. You told me to fuck off and said you would come back and hunt me down over summer with your sword. They didn't let you bring your sword to school, you explained. But I didn't understand then. I still thought you were a normal boy, except that you bit and scratched better than you punched and kicked. And your hair and eyes were silver, and you swore like a taxi driver from Roma. You threw my watch back at me and said I fought like a car accident. I said yes, it was the only way I knew how to, if I aimed a punch properly I always missed...

You told me I was stupid. I told you were weird; also that you dressed funny. I pulled you to your feet and took you home to get our wounds cleaned. I lied to everyone that a bunch of bigger boys had ganged up on us but we had stood our ground against them. Romario made approving noises and asked for your name, and you said - Antonio. Romario repeated it and smiled at you, he wanted to pat you on your head but I think even then he was disconcerted by your eyes. All he said was, good, it is a good name.

 

*

 

When it was just the two of us, walking through the pine forest, you rolled up your sleeves, you caught me looking at your thin arms and long slender hands. But you weren't ashamed of them, you said because your arms and legs were so weak, you had learnt how to fight with tools, with weapons. You spread out your fingers to show off your nails, smiled and bared your teeth. You said you would show me one day, how you killed people with your sword - I said, of course, one day. When we were twelve, another day was always a million years away.

I remember long lazy afternoons diving off the harbour, holding my breath alongside curious fishes, nosing in and about the scuttled old boats sleeping on the floor of the bay. We always swam slowly back to shore and rolled and wrestled in the shallows; when we rose from the water our bodies felt so heavy, the wind so cold, sometimes we succumbed and slid back into the warm welcoming arms of the sea. Afterwards we lay high up on the beach and the sand crusted all over our wet legs and backs and clumped in our damp hair. The late afternoon sunlight left spots in my eyes and an aftertaste of spice in my mouth, pulled a drowsy veil of sleep over my head. When you finally broke the silence I imagined your voice sounded gentler, almost tender. Staring up at the clear unblinking sky you told me, if only I had a shred of ambition in my stupid blonde head, you thought that you might, there was a chance you might, perhaps you might...

You held up your left hand and it cast a shadow over my face. I thanked you for the shade. You swore at me, said I didn't understand, I was a fool, couldn't I see it was your sword hand? I said, yes, I didn't understand. I can't remember: could it be that I understood, yet pretended I didn't? But it's true, back then I had not a shred of ambition in my stupid blonde head. When I was twelve it seemed that all I wanted was to lie beside you and laugh while you swore at me.

Ten laters later I will wish for my whole life to stop flowing relentlessly forward, to press my shoulders back into warm sand and laugh while you shout rude words at me. For the ambition and the courage to turn my head to you and say: yes, I'll accept your sword hand, and your cute teeth too.

 

*

 

When you were still Antonio, that is, before I realized you would have killed me on the school roof if you'd had a sword in your hand--

I remember a blue sky dripping with sunlight, pine trees waving black branches like the feathery arms of mystical beasts. I was walking through the forest on the cliffs overlooking the sea, staring at the back of your head. After football, after school, I would ask you to come over to my house for dinner. Sometimes you would spar with my father's secretaries; you borrowed their umbrellas and fought three or four men at once, laughed when you had knocked them all down. But you never laughed while we were walking in the forest. Your jersey clung dark and damp to your back; you complained bitterly about the heat, the humidity, walking through the forest, walking with me. I aimed my punch at a tree and clipped the back of your head instead. You said you had no time to play games, you had someone to kill tonight, after dinner. It was an important assignment, you were doing it for a boss, a boss's son who wanted to be a real boss even before he was done growing up. I wouldn't understand, you said, he was nothing like me.

I said I was hurt but would probably recover, and what was so important about it anyway? And you said, it was a test, a trial by fire, you had to do it or your pride would turn on you and eat you. You said superbi, the old word for pride; it sounded like dust coming out of your cute little mouth. I laughed and asked you, what kind of animal was this pride? What did it look like?

A sea eagle, you said. You were beginning to learn how to smile, then. But I'd never heard of a sea eagle. A giant, man-eating, sea eagle, you told me, that lives in the shadow of the pines. If you don't do what you pledge to do, if you're not as good as you claim you are, it will come down to your bed when the night is blackest and eat you up...

Your smile dissolved, you sat down and took off your shoes, complained that your feet hurt. I stole your shoes and climbed a tree successfully by trying my best to fall off it. You chased me, promising murder in the first degree. I broke branches, my feet slipped, several times I slid down the tree and kicked you. You dug your fingernails into the bark, you swore at me like a taxi driver from Roma. I saw your hands were bleeding; I told you to go down, I would throw your shoes down to you, I was sorry. You called me names and said I was too nice. I threw your shoes down, I lost my balance and slipped, I didn't even have time to cry out. You reached out to catch me, who was bigger and heavier than you, and I tore you right off the tree and we fell screaming together to the ground.

 

*

 

We were twelve years old. How was I to know you were telling the truth.

 

*

 

You would never let me follow you home, so I slipped out when it was dark and waited at the bottom of the path for you. You came hobbling along on a crutch, your sword swinging heavily from your hip. I offered to carry it for you. For the second time in my life you told me that I was too nice. Then you went past me and into the trees, and I could not do anything else but follow you.

I wonder, how did you know it was the same tree? Sometimes I doubt you knew, I think you just went as far as your legs would take you. There was just finally a time when you stopped walking and I saw how your shoulders hunched, your legs began to buckle. I stepped behind you and put my arms around your waist, told you to lean back on me. You dropped your crutch and scratched at my hands but you didn't do it seriously, didn't hurt me. I wrapped my arms around you and put my knees against the backs of your knees and finally you leaned back and let me catch your weight. Without saying anything else you put your hand on the hilt of your sword and drew the blade out from its sheath.

It was the first time I had seen you hold a sword in your hands. When you raised the blade to test its weight I felt you come alive, as though all along you had just been a hazy grey dream I'd had, through football and classes and endless journeys through the sea and the pines... You were still lame in one foot and half-eaten by your own pride but there was now this strength in you, like the sound of steel ringing through the air. You tore away from me; you were well enough now to balance on your one good leg, with your free hand grabbing the branches of the trees for support. I saw you strike out with your sword hand: sawdust blossomed through the air, splinters rained on my face, I put my hands over my eyes and shouted at you for the longest time to stop. When you finally held yourself still all I could see and hear was the silent tree bleeding sap from a hundred savage wounds to its trunk. But you were always listening and looking out for other people, even in the dark. That's how you saw them, the killers creeping up behind me.

You didn't know they were coming for me and I won't pretend you did. Papa always told me I'd never have been followed and ambushed if I hadn't gone off after you. But something happened to you when you realized there were men with guns all around us. Though I tripped and fell over immediately, I saw you, cutting off hands faster than they could pull the triggers with their fingers. The men who had come to kill me went down screaming; I saw you turn and move across them again, and they were silent. In the middle of the quiet forest you turned to me but it was so dark, I could barely see your face. I didn't know if you had been hurt, if you were still angry with the tree, with me. I called you, Antonio, but something else replied, no. Not Antonio.

The story of Superbi Squalo killing ten trained assassins with a broken foot traveled all the way across the coast, to the ears of the Vongola Ninth's son. And when he seemed impressed, when his rage at your first failed assignment subsided and he asked for you again, you told me, you were so happy. Your cute little teeth all bared in a smile.

 

*

 

I should have known something was wrong when it wasn't you who got up first. I gave you a hand up but you fell down again, you said your ankle hurt. I couldn't tell anything from looking at your legs still wrapped up so high in your black football socks. The line where the black elastic stopped and your thigh began was perfect, precise, unbearably clean. I rolled one of your socks down and found your ankle twisted and swollen, an errant gleam of white bone camouflaged almost perfectly against your skin. Your eyes were full of tears. Later I realized that for all I had seen you bite and scratch the other boys, no one had ever managed to truly hurt you.

I'd never seen you cry before, I didn't know what to do. On an impulse I held your face in my hands and kissed your wet cheeks and bumped my nose on your forehead. In reply you bit me so hard it split my lip, you put your arms around me and held on. Even when my father's men found us, you kept your arms so tight around me, the paramedics had to gas you unconscious to make you let go. Today, I think I finally realize: I'm never the one you want to cling to, but I always keep leaving you with no other choice.

I've always wondered if it was me you wanted to cut the heart out of, not the tree.

 

*

 

Returning to Sicily, I stand in the doorway of your hospital room to tell you that Vasto is unchanged. The pine trees are still standing on the cliffs looking out to sea, a family of geese continues to menace the school pond. Do you remember? I ask you. Ten years ago, you were playing football with your black socks pulled up over your knees, and a blonde idiot who kept tripping over his own feet came up to the fence and laughed at you--

"I remember," you say. It's the first time you've spoken since I brought you back to Italy. "You're still a blonde idiot."

"You still like to wear funny clothes," I tell you. They have taken the bandages off at last and when I see your face I have to turn away. The lacerations on your cheek and forehead are only superficial and I know you are vain enough to get rid of the scars they will leave. It's just that, every time you fall, you're actually so fragile, it seems you always break something important. One day you're going to break something really important, something that stops your blood from pumping, stops your life from flowing always forward. Today we are twenty-two, the sky is already darkening, another day is only six hours away. Maybe tomorrow is the day you cut your own heart out and eat it to stop it from hurting. That's what I see in your face, that's why I have to turn away. 

"Does it still hurt?" I ask.

"What hurts?"

"Everything, anything. You were almost eaten by a shark." I laugh to hear myself say that. You don't seem to find it as funny. "It wasn't so long ago. Does it still hurt?"

You look at me blankly, as if you have gone somewhere very far away and you don't know how to get back here, to this room, to me. I move to your bed and sit down by your feet. You make a small movement as if to draw your legs back. For a moment I believe you are going to kick me. I shift my weight, slip and fall off the bed. "You didn't do that, I did that on my own," I tell you, "don't get too happy."

You aren't laughing. Maybe it hurts too much if you do. In the end I laugh for you, until I feel my eyes burning and great sobs shaking in my chest. I sit down beside you, lean against you, rest my head against your cheek and press my nose into your hair. You let me take your hand in mine, you don't push me away. Maybe it's not you after all, you're not really here any more. Maybe I'm too late, the boy who offered me his sword hand on a distant beach really was devoured long ago by a great man-eating beast called pride. But maybe somewhere, not so far away, you are still crouching over to pull your black socks up over your knees, your angry twelve-year-old face has yet to know of a man called Xanxus. If I laugh at you, long and hard enough, maybe you will wake up and climb over that fence and punch me in the mouth again. Then as I go down I can tell you, I've always wanted to tell you, how cute your teeth are.

 

*

 

There was in my school a boy called Superbi Squalo. The teachers didn't use his real name in school. They called him Antonio, and talked about Superbi like he was someone else entirely. Say, a great, man-eating beast sleeping in the pine forest above the sea, dreaming of being a twelve-year-old boy.


End file.
